


Proof of Investment

by lilac_trees



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Pining Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-05
Updated: 2014-09-05
Packaged: 2018-02-16 05:12:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2257089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilac_trees/pseuds/lilac_trees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After John and Mary separate, Sherlock isn't taking any chances with John’s attention span ever again. He's got a plan: dinners at new restaurants, outfits that are guaranteed to get John's attention, a new haircut tailored to John's preferences - all to make him stay. John, however, follows these clues to the wrong conclusion, and resigns himself to playing the reluctant wingman for a newly-transformed Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Proof of Investment

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first fic for this fandom, which I find hilarious, since I've probably read upwards of a million words of fanwork about these two dorks. Anyway: I haven't written fic for a while, and I don't know how comfortable I feel having work attached to my name (well, account, whatever), so I'm not sure whether I'll be keeping this posted or not. We'll see.
> 
> Not beta-ed, not Britpicked - sorry about that. Feel free to point out anything that's glaringly wrong.
> 
> Edit: Just realized that my copious use of em-dashes aren't conducive to pretty posts. Hopefully that's fixed, sorry.

Sherlock is starting his day off in the manner to which he has become accustomed: he is trying his best not to openly stare at John, who is tapping his foot to the tinny melody piping through the café’s speakers. John must be particularly happy today, because these foot calisthenics are a new addition to John’s habits. For that, Sherlock is thankful, because he doesn’t know how anyone is supposed to not look at what is decidedly a pronounced bounce to John’s backside - if he had known this was to become a part of John’s repertoire, he might have had his resolve shattered ages ago.

Lost in his self-battle of will, Sherlock almost doesn’t notice John place his order down in front of him.

“Did the table do something to insult you?” John asks, as he moves his previously wiggling posterior into the chair across from Sherlock’s own.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock says, taking a sip of his coffee. Perfect, as per John’s usual.

John doesn’t bother to respond, taking a large sip of his own drink. This is a new routine for them - Sherlock didn’t used to enjoy stopping for coffee or a pastry, and in the past he’d often complained vociferously if John ever asked to stop for a break. But now that he’s back, now that he’s got John (mostly) to himself, he finds himself looking forward to the brief lull in their day, happy to share a private moment with his friend. 

They both fall easily into a warm sort of quiet, cradling their cups in their hands. 

Next to them are two women at a table, and Sherlock finds himself momentarily diverted, wondering if either of them is likely to catch John’s eye. One of the women, a blonde, is hunched over what looks like a still-full cup of tea, and although her voice is quiet, Sherlock hears every word. 

“Gemma, I still can’t believe it. It’s been what, two days? I feel like it’s been weeks. Months, maybe.”

The other woman sweeps her brown hair aside to tuck it behind her ear. “Makes sense, though. Don’t worry too much about it. Things like that, they take time. We’ve read the magazines, Fi. Even if we did use to make fun of them.”

The blonde raises her eyes gratefully to her friend. Sherlock glances over at John, who is looking out of the window at the passersby with a faraway gaze, seemingly unbothered by Sherlock’s lack of attention. Sherlock, glad for the reprieve, turns his attention back to the women. Café chat, he thinks, is perhaps not worth entirely deleting from his mind. It was fascinating, the humanity that could be gleaned from these small conversations.

“Are you taking some time for yourself?” Gemma asks.

“Yeah, I guess I am. I mean, I’ve been to work, obviously, but that doesn’t really occupy me much, and then there’s the whole moving out process, and-”

Gemma cringes. “Not exactly what I mean, but yeah, I get it. I meant, you know, personal stuff; the cliché stuff, ice cream, pedicures, the uni breakup routine. It’s sacrosanct, at this point.”

The one nicknamed Fi smiles. “I’m getting my haircut, actually.”

Sherlock’s brow momentarily furrows. While solving crimes hasn’t made him an expert in all the vagaries of the human heart, he likes to think he can extrapolate and understand most motives. Was a new haircut after a bad relationship a detectable pattern? This was new information.

Gemma’s knowing smile only further piques Sherlock’s curiosity. “Ah, so you’re at that point, are you? Well, good for you.”

“It’s a cliché for a reason,” the blonde says, and finally takes a hearty sip from her cup. “I’m going shorter, of course. Something dramatic, something new. I’ve wanted a short cut since uni, never had the courage before. Time to start anew, maybe.”

Gemma reaches out and the two women clasp hands gently, tenderly, and for a second Sherlock thinks about how much simpler friendship would be for him, if he and John could just act like these two. Then he realizes that, firstly, he doesn’t just want to be John’s friend, and secondly, if John ever took his hand like that, Sherlock would likely never let it go.

Sherlock tunes them out at last, and flicks his eyes back over to John. To his surprise, John’s eyes are focused on Sherlock, and there’s a small quirk to the corner of his mouth.

“Anything interesting?” John asks, implicitly acknowledging his awareness of Sherlock’s eavesdropping. 

Warmth sweeps from Sherlock face down to his chest as he realizes, yet again, that John can speak his language without trying. “Hardly,” Sherlock says, and John’s smirk tells him that John knows he’s lying.

As Sherlock leans back and drinks the rest of his coffee, he carefully places a dialogue script of Gemma and Fi’s conversation on a previously dusty shelf in his mind palace. He has a feeling he’ll be rereading it shortly.

 

 

It takes a few days, but eventually there comes a time when John’s out doing the shopping, and Sherlock has time to curl onto the couch and run through the scattered plan that’s formulating in the back of his mind.

Mary’s been gone for months now, five months to the day, if he’s counting, and he’s no longer a good enough man to pretend that he’s isn’t. And it’s been five months of just John; no women, only a couple of visits to the pub with friends, and even then, they were Sherlock’s acquaintances too, so it was hardly a sign that John was trying to get some space.

It’s time, Sherlock thinks, to stop hoping that John will somehow forget about dating for the next fifty years, give or take a decade. Rather, it’s time for Sherlock to prove to John that, faked suicide aside, Sherlock is a good long-term investment. He knows, without a doubt, that he won’t have the strength to sit through another of John’s weddings. (Unless, of course, Sherlock himself was at the end of the aisle. But that’s not likely to happen; the best Sherlock can do is show John that Sherlock, lack of breasts aside, would be more than willing to make John as happy as possible.)

Sherlock sinks further down into the couch and closes his eyes, pulling a tea-stained script off a shelf and flicking his wrist to parse through the irrelevant words. He gets to the point where “time to start anew” floats off the page and stops, seeing it written in block white letters across the back of his eyes. There, he thinks. The game is on.

He reaches for John’s laptop and settles it on his thighs, breaking the password - GoAwaySH, not creative in the slightest - and hunting for a folder that John believes Sherlock doesn’t know about.

As he goes through the collection, he sees, much to his disappointment, that there hasn’t been a large change in John’s pornography library post-marriage and divorce. He had almost been looking forward to making a spreadsheet on the trajectory of John’s sexual interests; he’d already memorized the contents of John’s ‘hidden’ folder years ago. 

Nothing to be done - he’d have to work with what he had. John was an equal opportunity viewer, fine with all sorts of pairings and threesomes. But Sherlock wasn’t interested in the woman on woman scenes; he quickly flicked through his mental catalog with a wave of his wrist, lining up all the body types and physical attributes of the male stars. Mostly darker hair, thin, tall: all of which worked in Sherlock’s favor. The only criteria Sherlock couldn’t fit were in terms of haircut; all of the men in the videos had shorter to mid-length hair, sometimes wavy, never overtly curly.

Well, that was easily fixable. He took screenshots of the scenes that best displayed the actors’ hair⎯surely that’s what people did when they went for haircuts, they brought pictures along for reference. He didn’t see why this would be any different.

Pictures tucked neatly into his coat pocket, he took himself off for a brief consultation with his preferred hairdresser. 

 

John was standing over the kettle when Sherlock returned. “Cuppa?” John asks without turning around.

Sherlock fidgets slightly in place, but doesn’t say a word, suddenly unwilling to call attention to himself.

“Sherlock?” John says, and then turns to face him. His eyes widen slightly, then narrow. “That’s new.”

“Brilliant observation, John, you’re catching on.”

“Shut it, you.” John squints slightly. “It suits you, in a way.”

“In a way?” Sherlock says, with an offended sniff.

John moves to shut off the kettle, and then goes to the fridge for the milk. “All right, you ponce. It’s fantastic, a real improvement, you look great, really goes with your cheekbones. Better?”

“Marginally,” Sherlock says, smiling at John’s broad back.

Milk retrieved, John sets about to fixing their cups properly. “So? Go on then, why’d you do it?”

Sherlock’s hands fidget in his coat pockets. “Bored,” he says, trying his hardest to avoid blushing. “Did you know that cut hair gets thrown out?”

“Er, yes? What else are they supposed to do with it?”

“Keep it? Study it? Imagine the information, dye jobs and hair treatments,” Sherlock says, his mouth moving faster and faster. “It’s a whole new area of study, I need to-” And with that, he sweeps out of the kitchen and upstairs into his room.

It’s only after the sunlight shifts into darkness outside the window that he realizes he had left John downstairs in mid-conversation. He had only gotten four compliments, which was above average from John, but then again Sherlock had prompted him, so where did that really leave him?

He slips his shoes off and sits cross-legged on the duvet, his hands pressed palm to palm under his chin. Next time, he’d get John’s attention for longer, and he wouldn’t run off in the middle of it.

 

Downstairs, John is nursing his second cup of tea and trying to read a crime novel. He’s only managed about thirty pages in the last hour; he keeps seeing Sherlock behind him in the kitchen, with his new haircut and his infamous coat. And then, more than that, he thinks of how Sherlock hasn’t been as case-focused recently, how he’d let his inbox pile up before choosing one or two cases - “these are eights, John!” - and then solving them with only of a quarter of the frenetic energy that Sherlock used to have thrumming under his skin.

John frowns, trying to recognize the pattern, sparing a thought for how Sherlock would likely be proud of him taking such initiative. New haircut, fewer cases, John thinks, turning them over and over his head and not seeing them connect. New hair, ignoring cases, more smiles lately, too, and _new hair_? Something small takes root in his mind, the mere shadow of the suggestion that perhaps Sherlock has changed more than John initially realized. Sherlock seemed softer now, somehow. Like he’d been sprinting for half his life, only to realize that he’d really rather walk.

John is just about to start walking through possible motives - with Sherlock’s voice chiming a “not enough data, John” - when a muffled thump sounding from behind Sherlock’s bedroom door breaks his concentration.

“Everything okay?” John asks, not expecting to hear an answer.

Instead of silence, John instead hears Sherlock’s door slam open. “John, we’re going out,” Sherlock says, emerging from his room in - no, it must be John’s imagination - what looks to be a pair of tight, dark blue jeans. Sherlock’s customary tailored jacket is gone, too; he’s wearing a sinfully soft-looking Henley, with the first two buttons undone. John only barely stops his jaw from dislocating. It’s the most casual outfit Sherlock has ever worn, aside from his disguises, and even those were often over-the-top, professional or expensive-looking, meant as deterrents for those who were looking too closely.

Now Sherlock looks like a stranger John might pick up at a bar: not too ostentatious, and very, very laidback. “Oh,” John says, and congratulates himself on not dropping his novel to the floor. He manages to place it carefully on the coffee table before getting to his feet. “Didn’t think you’d be eating tonight.”

Sherlock’s smile is a punch straight through John’s chest. “Don’t theorize ahead of the facts,” he says, and then moves to get his coat and scarf. “We’re going somewhere new.”

John begins to get it. “Ah,” he says, “You’re not really hungry.” His brow furrows as he tries to reason things out. “Restaurant close to a new crime scene?”

Sherlock looks briefly puzzled for a moment, then his face clears. “Possibly,” he says, and he is thankful when John doesn’t question him. It’s not true, but Sherlock is not yet so confident that he feels he can look John in the face and tell him no, actually, he just wanted to take John out somewhere, be with him in public, treat him to a new adventure, even if it was only culinary. 

Anyway, all the dating websites had recommended it - said it fostered a “shared appreciation for discovery,” which sounded ridiculous, frankly, but there’s something about the adjective ‘shared’ that Sherlock just cannot ignore when it comes to his connection with John. He’ll use whatever methods he can, even if they do sound abominably stupid.

 

John isn’t sure why they’re here, in some dim but cozy Greek restaurant that Sherlock has chosen for them. He hadn’t seen any police tape on the way, certainly no flashing lights, and anyway, Sherlock keeps doing this thing where he acts light and charming and smiles a lot, without making any sort of deductions about the people around them, or making any incisive comments whatsoever. John feels a bit off-kilter, now that he thinks about it.

“This is, uh, new,” John says, trying his best not to make it sound like a question.

“Yes, well, I _did_ tell you,” Sherlock says.

John tries not to stare: Sherlock is still, calm, casually-dressed (which still boggles John’s mind whenever he thinks about it too hard), clearly grounded in the moment instead of itching to fly off in all directions, a departure from his usual modus operandi during any sort of sit-down meal.

“Right,” John says, suddenly feeling like he needs to duck his head or look away. He’s never really had a conversation with Sherlock like this, completely devoid of the scientific or the criminal. Previous dinners were often comfortable silences followed by spontaneous tests of John’s memory for med school lectures, or stories of past successes in Sherlock’s career, or just observation games about other patrons, which John always lost.

Now, Sherlock seems a bit, well, normal, almost perfectly so. He smiles and thanks the serving staff, he is solicitous of John’s tastes (had even suggested what to drink, for Christ’s sake, which Sherlock had never bothered to do in the past), he allows his eyes to flicker to other tables only slightly, and even then, they only ever trail silently back to John.

John takes a moment to sip his lager and look around, noting the rather unsubtle glances being aimed at Sherlock from what looks like every corner of the room. Unconsciously, John’s eyes drop down to the hands of each covetous onlooker, seeing that only two of the five eyeing Sherlock are wearing rings. John can’t help it - his eyes move to his own unadorned ring finger for the span of a second.

“Do you want dessert?” Sherlock asks, his voice tense and abrupt. 

“What?” He looks up to meet Sherlock’s eyes, which are fixed firmly on the table in front of him. Sherlock’s shoulders seem raised, which John finds strange, until he realizes that Sherlock is probably uncomfortable at the amount of people who are looking at him. But no, John thinks, that isn’t right; Sherlock loves attention.

“No, we should go,” John says, and Sherlock looks momentarily relieved before he turns his head to try and find the waiter.

In a flash of inspiration, Sherlock’s raised shoulders, friendly demeanor, new haircut, and look of relief coalesce into a larger picture. John remembers watching Sherlock fondly out of the corner of his eye as Sherlock eavesdropped on the women next to them at the café; remembers hearing one of them talking about getting a haircut and a fresh start.

It’s obvious, John thinks, cringing as he hears the deduction unravel in Sherlock’s voice within his mind: Sherlock was acting nicer - acting different - and changing his wardrobe and his hair. Sherlock wanted to _start anew_ ; likely, he wanted to find someone for himself, someone like one of the people watching him in the restaurant, who were clearly only restrained by circumstance. 

They likely would have approached Sherlock if he had been eating alone, hence why Sherlock looked happier to leave, since then John would be less of an obstruction to a stranger trying to approach someone for a date. John could go home, and Sherlock could come back another time, or go somewhere else, confident in his ability to draw attention and desire.

John’s dinner sits heavy in his stomach, and he moves his arm so he can rest his chin in his hand, pointedly not looking across the table. Sherlock, who is still trying to make eye contact with the waiter - and is, instead, meeting the eyes of everyone who is looking at him - eventually sees a slight look of distress settle over John’s face, and despairs at his own ability to complete even this one, basic, decent thing. John has never looked this unhappy after a meal; his unwillingness to look at Sherlock clearly indicates that, for all that Sherlock is trying his best, it still isn’t what John wants. Typical.

 

Two weeks after the disastrous dinner at the Greek restaurant, Sherlock is finally ready to try again. He strides into the sitting room with his coat already on, covering the deep purple button down shirt that always makes John’s eyes linger on him for one point four seconds longer. “Will this outfit work?” Sherlock asks, as if he doesn’t already know the answer.

“Yeah, uh, you look… you look good, Sherlock,” John says, but he doesn’t say it like he says _Amazing!_ or _Brilliant!_ There’s a downward tilt to his thin lips that Sherlock doesn’t like, not at all. “What’s the occasion?”

“We’re going to that place you like, the one with the dragon on the sign, hurry up.”

John’s brow furrows slightly, and then clears. “Oh. Right. A case?”

“Yes, yes, that. Come _on_.” And Sherlock is lying through his teeth, but John, as ever, doesn’t notice.

John gives a wan smile, and reaches down with both his small hands to further button up his jacket. Sherlock wishes he wouldn’t; he feels like he hasn’t seen John in anything less than three layers of clothing in the last two weeks. Although, yesterday John had actually kept his jacket unopened to an inch lower than his sternum, which was a pleasant surprise of such magnitude that Sherlock ignored his experiments in order to better appreciate this gift via the unparalleled vantage point offered by his armchair. “Right. After you.” John’s eyes meet his briefly before moving to hover somewhere over Sherlock’s right shoulder. “Actually, I, uh,” his hand moves to pat at his jacket pocket, “left my wallet upstairs. Meet you in a minute?” Before Sherlock has the chance to reply, John is halfway to his room.

Sherlock, vaguely frustrated, runs his hands through his hair, briefly marveling at how easy the gesture is now that his hair is shorter. Did John not like this style? Is that why he couldn’t meet Sherlock’s eyes for what seemed like their entire conversation?

He figures it’s best to let it go. Instead, he should be mentally preparing, and with a brief mental recalibration and one last thought for yesterday’s under-sternum miracle, that’s exactly what he does. Dart and billiards strategies running behind his eyes, Sherlock makes his way to the pavement outside 221b.

Upstairs, John is frozen in front of his cheap hanging mirror, his eyes wide and panicked. Just go, he thinks, you can do this. It’s for a case. You’re his partner - fuck, no, don’t _think_ that word, just don’t, you’re his friend - you’ll be fine. So people there will eyeball Sherlock like he’s the daily special, so _what_ , he _is_ special, it only makes sense, just let him bask in it, he deserves that and more, don’t be selfish, he went out for a new haircut and he’s on a case, he’s in prime fucking form, just _go_ you old bastard, go-

Sherlock’s voice floats up the stairs. “John? Are you coming?”

“Yeah, er, yes!” John says, and is inordinately proud of the fact that his voice doesn’t crack. “Sorry, sorry. Yes. Coming.” And he actually goes to find his wallet and then clatters down the stairs, falling back into the familiar inner mantra that’s kept him going these last few weeks: you are his best friend, he thinks, and you will not hold him back.

 

Seven minutes in the pub and John wants to go home. They had barely made it three feet into the place before the appreciative glances starting flowing over Sherlock’s face and body, and even though John knew it was going to happen - had, in fact, steeled himself for this inevitability - he found the reality of it much harder to confront. He has to shove his left hand into his pocket to stop it from clenching into a fist.

“Well?” Sherlock asks, and his eyes are bright.

“Well, what?” John asks, and winces slightly when he hears how snappish he sounds, even to himself. “Isn’t there, you know, a suspect? To watch? Or tackle, you never know with you.”

Sherlock gives him a wavering smile. “Get a table, would you?” And before John can answer, Sherlock moves towards the bar.

John knows the routine: pick a table with a good scope of the room, preferably against a wall so that no one can sneak up on them. There’s a corner booth that will do nicely, and John slides neatly into the side that faces the wall, so that Sherlock can look out over the entire room unobstructed. John turns his head slightly to look out himself, and sees at least four people who are eyeing Sherlock, including - yes, he’s not wrong - the bartender, who looks young enough to be John’s own son. John doesn’t even bother to marvel, and turns back to rest his chin in his right hand. He finds it a lot less frustrating to just stare at the dull gleam of the wooden table.

“Beer, your favorite,” Sherlock says to John’s downturned head, plunking the two glasses down on the table. Sherlock works to hide his frown as John’s face tilts up to look at him.

“Mm, thanks,” John says, but makes no immediate move to take his glass. Then a brief scowl flickers over his face, and he reaches out, drinking half without stopping. He wipes his mouth before gesturing at Sherlock's glass. “You’re drinking too?”

“That’s what people do, isn’t it? At pubs.” Sherlock moves to follow John, but drinks about half of what John has so hastily thrown back.

“Sure, I suppose,” John says. Then he perks up, and Sherlock has to stop himself from leaning forward, the better to get closer to John’s brief glow. “So. What’s the case?”

“Petty theft,” Sherlock says quickly. “Good excuse to scope out the local businesses.” He gives John a small smile. “And a better excuse to earn more favors.”

John chuckles. “Ah, it all becomes clear. Petty theft would rank, what, a negative two for you?”

“Oh, please. At least a negative seven,” Sherlock replies. “The criminal classes are getting duller and duller. This is the best I’ve gotten in _weeks_.”

John snorts, and Sherlock, suddenly nervous, asks, “Darts or pool?”

“Sorry? What?”

It’s a sign of Sherlock’s anxiety that he doesn’t even bother rolling his eyes at being forced to repeat himself. “I _said_ , darts or pool? Come on, John, isn’t that what you do?”

“I, ah, yeah, I guess. But I thought-”

“Well, don’t,” Sherlock says, and then rushes on, “Just pick.”

“I hadn’t really planned on-”

“Oh, fine. I’ll pick. Darts,” Sherlock says, and then is up and walking away. John, used to his flatmate’s rapid-fire decisions, merely downs his beer. By the time he looks up again, Sherlock is over in the back of the room, fiddling with one of the dartboards. And, unsurprisingly, the table of two women and one man using the next dartboard over are all staring at him. John suddenly wishes Sherlock had bought him something a bit stronger than beer.

John walks over and Sherlock turns around to smile at him. “The first row of darts are slightly bent and the fifth from the left on the bottom row is slightly heavier than the others. Would you like to go first?”

“Er, sure,” John says, and then moves closer as if to inspect them himself. “Why are we doing this, Sherlock?” he whispers. “Was the thief a hustler or something?” John’s mouth purses as he thinks. “Oh, or a pickpocket?”

Sherlock huffs a bit, but it sounds fond. “No, John. We’re blending in.”

“Oh. Right. Well, guess I’d better warm up,” John says guilelessly, and walks over to get familiar with the distance and the angles.

All at once, Sherlock wishes he never mentioned anything about a case. Here John was, taking him at his word, not even considering that Sherlock might have ulterior motives, even though the motives were, in Sherlock’s opinion, not harmful in the slightest. Still, he didn’t want John to leave at the end of the night thinking that this was just for a case - he wanted John to see that Sherlock could do things just for fun, _normal_ things, not just crime and detecting, especially if it meant spending more time alone. Together.

“You going to move, Sherlock?” John asks, holding the dart lightly between his thumb and forefinger. “Or did you want me to throw them at you?” John looks briefly worried, as if the thought has only just occurred to him that this could be one of Sherlock’s spontaneous experiments.

“Don’t be stupid,” Sherlock says, and realizes a second too late that this is not what he wanted to say.

John’s eyes drop slightly, and Sherlock’s throat goes a bit tight.

“Well move then, you prat,” John replies. Thankfully, his voice sounds rather neutral.

Sherlock shifts out of the way and hears a hollow thud to his right. John has hit the second ring from the bullseye; it’s not a bad shot, but not the greatest. Sherlock crows internally - he’ll really be able to impress John now.

Sherlock moves towards him, pivots, lines up his own shot and _thud_. Bullseye, first try, just what he wanted. He turns around to see John’s mouth drop slightly open in disbelief.

“Nice, mate,” the man from the next table over says. The man’s eyes are glazed, clearly bordering on intoxication. Both of the women behind him are smiling. “Not going to go easy on your friend there?”

At first John bristles, but then he thinks, You said you weren’t going to hold him back. And here are relative strangers, essentially queuing up to talk to Sherlock, and all Sherlock has done is throw a single dart. Sherlock has better things to do than play darts with him, anyway - for God’s sake, John’s got an intermittent tremor. He should have begged off in the first place.

“He never does,” John says, with an easy smile. He looks over at Sherlock, whose mouth is turned down in a small moue. “I’m no expert, anyway,” John says, mentally ignoring the expert shots he’s made with much more dangerous weapons. He wasn’t an expert _tonight_ , at any rate. John scans the board next to his, sees the darts that are clustered on and near the bullseye, and sees his chance. _You said you weren’t going to hold him back._ The man was young, gently handsome; the women were fit, pretty, and clearly interested. “Why don’t you go on instead? I’ll sit this round out.”

“John, no-” Sherlock says, feeling the evening quickly slipping out of his grasp.

“Don’t mind him, he just knows I’m an easy win,” John says, and behind him Sherlock freezes and starts to frown.

“You sure?” the man asks, somewhat dubiously. Still, there’s a smile growing on his face like he can’t believe his luck.

“No, he’s not,” Sherlock says, his expression dark and slightly shuttered. “Come on, John, we’re leaving.” And without another word, he sweeps away, John murmuring confused apologies in his wake.

 

Sherlock thunders out of the pub and onto the street with a huff. John is close behind him. “What _was_ that, Sherlock?” John says. He is angry, he can tell by the tightness in his own jaw, but he can’t tell the source. Sherlock’s rudeness? Sherlock’s inability to acknowledge how hard it was for John to let him go and have fun with younger, fitter, nicer people?

“Me, John? Me? I should ask you that. ‘I’m no expert,’” Sherlock says, in an uncanny imitation of his voice. “You have _shot men through windows_ , why did you lie?”

“Was I supposed to tell them that, Sherlock? ‘Sorry, mate, I’m not so good with darts but I can still blow your head off?’”

“You weren’t supposed to tell them anything! You were supposed to, oh, hell, play darts. With me.”

“You don’t _play darts_ , Sherlock!” John tries not to hear how strangled and ridiculous his voice sounds. “You don’t… you haven’t… Christ.” John stops walking and rubs a face over his hands. When he looks up at Sherlock, his expression looks so lost that Sherlock has to focus all his effort into not reaching out and touching him.

“Let’s just go home,” John says finally, and brushes past Sherlock in his haste. Sherlock follows behind him, watching John’s feet as he puts more and more distance between himself and his long-coated shadow. 

 

John crashes through the door first and nearly rips off his coat. “I don’t get you,” he says, but it is not in the same tone of exasperated wonder that Sherlock is used to hearing in John’s voice. “I never have,” John adds, with a rueful laugh, “but especially not now.”

“That’s because you see-”

“But don’t observe, yes, Sherlock, I get it.” John’s smile is brittle. “Funny, though, how saying it doesn’t help me in the slightest. You know,” John says, and then pauses. “Ha, how do I put this? I _have_ observed, Sherlock. Sorry, sorry, you’ll say I’ve just looked. But what I see is this: someone who gets a new haircut, starts going out to restaurants and pubs, cuts down on work, starts being friendly with strangers, hell, changes every single thing about himself, someone who-”

Sherlock looks stricken. “John, I…”

“Not finished,” John says, holding up a hand. “Someone who is so… so utterly different after two years…” John looks away, and then squares his shoulders.

Sherlock, who always got a shiver down his spine at that straight-backed stance, now hates the very sight of it. It means John is trying to push himself through something uncomfortable, which is the last thing Sherlock wants, especially when that uncomfortable thing seems to be _him_. 

“Listen, Sherlock. I don’t know what you did for that time, or where you went, or who you met, and you don’t… you shouldn’t feel like you need to tell me. But, I. Well. Whatever or whoever has made you feel like you need to change so thoroughly, I hope it’s worth it.”

Sherlock stifles the simultaneous urges to laugh and sob. How could John stand here, in front of him, seeing Sherlock trying so hard to be everything John could possibly want or need, and think that he was doing it for someone else?

Sherlock reaches up to run a hand through his own hair, seeking comfort in the gesture, and feels the emptiness where his curls used to be. All at once, he is exhausted. “I have tried, John,” Sherlock says, dropping his hands. To John’s utter horror, Sherlock’s voice sounds thick and clogged. “I have changed my clothes, I have cut my hair; I have taken you to restaurants, and found you the deadliest cases. What else do I have to do?”

“What do you mean?” John says. “What do you mean, what else?”

“It was for you, John. All of it, for you.” And it is the same voice as the one he remembers on his wedding day, saying, _It’s you, John Watson, you keep me right._ Sherlock sighs. “And of course, you see, I still did it wrong.” 

“But, I, but, I thought you-” John’s eyes lose focus. “Oh. OH.” He meets Sherlock’s eyes, and gives him a bewildered smile, his dark blue eyes suddenly blindingly bright with mirth. “Oh, Sherlock. I didn’t know. God, I thought you were… I thought you wanted to…” John drops his head slightly. “I thought you wanted to, you know. Get out. Date around.”

“That’s because you’re an idiot,” Sherlock says, but he’s smiling. It’s a watery smile, shaking a bit at the corner.

“Getting that now,” John says, and shakes his head slightly. He holds a hand up to his mouth, and through it, Sherlock hears a muffled bark of laughter. “Oh, Christ,” John says, moving his hand back to his side. “You have no idea how much I-”

“What, John?” Sherlock says, and his voice is an excited whisper, and John abruptly realizes that Sherlock has put his heart on the line without John saying anything in return.

John takes the few extra steps and wraps his arms around Sherlock, nuzzling his face into Sherlock’s chest to hide his expression of wonder. “How much I, God, just really, really want you.” He can feel Sherlock’s gasp through the thin material of his shirt.

“No, seriously, Sherlock, you wouldn’t believe. I… wanted to do the right thing, wanted to let you go, since I, ah, thought that was what you wanted.” Sherlock’s arms wriggle out of John’s grasp and fold in around John’s body, holding him tightly, unceasingly. “What could you want with me, is what I thought. I was older now, and divorced, too, not exactly a prime catch.” Above him, Sherlock clicks his tongue in incredulity.

“No, really,” John says, as earnestly as he can. “And then you went off and made all these changes and I thought, well, that was the final proof; you were moving on, starting anew.”

“You heard,” Sherlock says to the top of his head, and then darts in to press a kiss into his hair, so quickly that John can almost pretend it didn’t happen. John, wanting more of that fatally sweet gesture, merely holds Sherlock closer.

“Of course I did,” John mumbles, still cuddled tightly against Sherlock’s front. “I always pay attention to what you’re doing. Even when it’s eavesdropping.” John sighs. “I guess I was… what are you always saying? Theorizing without the facts.”

“I thought the haircut would make it clear,” Sherlock said, resting his mouth against John’s hair. Part of him wished John would step back and look up, but the other part, the one that can’t believe John is touching him like this, is almost relieved at how not facing one another allows the poison to drain away from their miscommunications. “Stupid. I should have factored in the disparity between our deductive skills.”

“Oh, careful, we were having a moment a second ago.”

Sherlock hums. “You know what I mean.”

“I do,” John says, and finally steps back. One of his hands trails across Sherlock’s hip before letting go, and Sherlock feels that touch all the way to his toes. “Now, I do.” John’s deep blue eyes are roving over Sherlock’s face, and there’s a tilt to his mouth that makes Sherlock think that John knows what’s going to happen next. Sherlock is relieved; his brain had started ticking in tempo _largo_ the minute John’s face had burrowed into his chest.

“Can I…”

“Anything,” Sherlock says, and it comes out in a whisper.

“I really, really need to touch you,” John says, and takes a step forward. His sturdy hands cup Sherlock’s head, sifting gently through his now-shorter hair. “Oh, God, that feels even better than it looks.”

Sherlock can’t help it; his teeth sink slightly into his lower lip and stay there, tensed against the sounds that are trying to crawl out of his throat.

John’s eyes settle on Sherlock’s before drifting down to his mouth. “I just need to ask you one thing.”

“Oh, hell. Now?” Sherlock says, and his voice sounds more high-pitched than he’d have like it to be, considering the circumstances.

John moves in closer, and Sherlock’s heart feels like it’s about to leap out of his chest and evaporate. “Just. Mmm,” John rumbles, and Sherlock suddenly has a new appreciation for the idea of _boiling points_. “When your curls grows back, don’t cut them again. I want to see your face when I pull them.”

Sherlock can’t help it; his breathing speeds up until it sounds like he’s in the middle of a rooftop chase. “Oh-”

And John’s kissing him, the gentle brush of his thin mouth deepening into heat and slick hunger. Sherlock’s hands hover behind John’s back before they latch onto his shirt and stay there. He’s trying his best to keep up with John, he really is, but John’s mouth is an eventuality that Sherlock had not planned for, not like this. So instead he just takes what John gives him, only daring to take a few nips and licks here and there, whenever he feels as though John might pull away.

John opens his eyes and takes a second to look at Sherlock being kissed, marveling at the look of desperate concentration on his face. All at once, John can’t take it; he pulls his mouth away, panting, and at Sherlock’s whimper, tries his best to hook his chin over Sherlock’s shoulder, trying to get the man closer. “You’re brilliant,” John says, brushing his hands down from Sherlock’s shoulders to his back, then settling them on his waist. “That was brilliant.”

“You’re repeating yourself,” Sherlock says, but there’s a quiver in his voice that John wants to banish entirely.

“And you’re completely mad. How you could ever think you needed to change for me, I’ll never know, but Sherlock-”

“Stop, come back,” Sherlock says, and writhes a bit in John’s arms, clearly trying to end the conversation and get John where he wants him; namely, kissing the chemical equations out of his brain.

“I will, God, of course I will,” John says, and he knows his own emotional timer is about to run out. It’s been too much, tonight. “But let me just… I need you to know⎯”

“I do.”

“You don’t. You’re the best man I’ve ever known, Sherlock, and if you ever get it into your head to change something about you to suit me, I’ll just have to spend an hour or two going into exact detail about everything I love about you.”

“Love?” Sherlock says, and there’s that damn quiver again. John’s had enough.

“Yes, of course. Of course I do.” John releases Sherlock from his hug and stands in front of him. “I’m going to kiss you now.” And then he drags Sherlock over to the couch, pushes him down onto it, and drapes himself over the wide-eyed man under him. “Is that okay?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Idiot.” And this time, he’s the one cradling John’s head and moving to kiss him. Sherlock lets the kiss build and build, letting John’s tongue flick against his own, following it back and diving in for more, testing every area of John’s mouth only to realize that his observations of _hot, wet, soft, pink, oh God, perfect_ are hardly the stuff of scientific rigor.

A thought comes to him, and Sherlock can’t help himself - he breaks away from John’s entirely too-delicious mouth and looks up at John with concern.

“What?” John says, trying to regain his breath. “What’s wrong?”

“Do you understand what I want now? Or do your powers of deduction not extend to interpreting kissing as a declaration?”

John’s mouth drops slightly open, and his eyes narrow. He sits up, and then starts to laugh. “You are such a dick.” He gets up off the couch, and catches the hand that Sherlock is using to reach out for him, tugging at it roughly. “And if you don’t get your arse off this couch and into my bed, I’ll go back to that pub and drink our miscommunications away. Leaving you all alone, to suffer.”

Sherlock nearly trips in the process of flinging himself up the stairs to John’s bedroom.

At the foot of the steps, John takes a second and collects himself.

“Come on, John,” he hears, followed by a muffled thump. “Your bed is of no interest if you’re not in it.”

“Nothing to misinterpret there,” John says to himself, and starts up the stairs, smiling.


End file.
